


Unsinkable

by versaphile



Series: Holidays [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Missing Scene, Post Episode: 2007 Xmas Voyage of the Damned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-30
Updated: 2007-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-VOTD. The Doctor has nowhere to go, and ends up in Cardiff. For taffimai.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsinkable

The truth is, the last thing he needs is to be on his own. But there's no way he can drag someone else into his life, not right now. Not after the heartsbreaking failure that was the past day. Was it really only that long? All those lives, snuffed out in so short a time. It should have taken longer. It shouldn't have happened at all.

If they'd listened to him when he'd told them the shields were down, not dragged him off kicking and screaming. If they'd listened to him when he'd told them to let him save them and not thrown away their own lives for his sake. If Max Capricorn hadn't been a greedy, monstrous, heartless man who was willing to sacrifice a planet for petty revenge. If Astrid hadn't been brave and good and died for it.

He said he could do anything. Shouted it, snarled it, wanted it to be true so badly it hurt. Deep down, the truth is he can't do anything except save himself at the cost of everyone around him. Everyone he wants to save, he loses. The harder he fights for them, the harder he holds on to them, the quicker they slip through his fingers.

He thinks of Martha saying goodbye, mere hours ago. Not hours to her now, by her reckoning. Months have passed for her, for Jack. He knows they're better off without him, taking the slow path. He didn't try to hold on to either of them, and that's why they survived. Well, that and Jack's factness. Martha's bravery. 

He thinks of Sarah Jane, quite suddenly, and hopes she's all right, down there in London. She wouldn't have run off to the country, he's certain of that. He got that right, at least. Saved the Earth. He can do that much.

Martha's phone is a heavy weight in his pocket, even thought it's so light and his pockets are dimensionally transcendent. He's overcome with the urge to call her, but he won't. He can't. Not when her words are still ringing in his ears, when she has people to look after, when she told him he'd made her feel second-best. He'd never meant to do that, never even thought such a thing, but somehow it had happened anyway. She has to call him; he can't call her.

He never would have thought he'd want to see one of his previous regenerations so badly. They used to irritate him, back in the day. He never got along with himselves, always ended up bickering. Granted, he rather enjoyed bickering, but he's not much in the mood for it right now. Even if he did drop the TARDIS shields and cross over his own timeline again, it would not only be incredibly dangerous but incredibly foolish, and he's not lost so much of his wits that he'd do that. He's not that desperate for company.

He remembers the Master's corpse and his breath catches.

Before he can stop himself, he sets coordinates. Moves across space but not time and materializes in front of the fountain at Roald Dahl Plass. Grabs his coat and walks outside into a snowless night, Cardiff too far from the Titanic's ballast drop for false snow. Somehow it's a relief.

Torchwood's security is bypassed easily enough, but to his surprise he's actually in the database. He wonders when Jack put that in, and if he expected a visit. It makes the Doctor feel less rude about striding in unannounced. Jack wasn't exactly eager for his company the last time he saw him yesterday months ago, but...

Well. Moving on.

But Jack's not in. No one's in. Of course they're not, because it's Christmas Day and they'll be with their families, and he didn't think of that because he doesn't think of things like that. Family. The last family he had is out of reach in another dimension, and the one before that he blew up, and with that kind of track record he's better off not hurrying into someone else's. His previous self was right about that, not doing domestic. He had to learn the lesson a second time for it to sink in, but it's sunk. 

Lacking anything else to do, he wanders around the Hub. Pokes through everyone's files, checks to make sure they're not close to anything dangerous. Deletes a few things, and adjusts Toshiko's calculations so they don't accidentally tear another hole in the universe.

When he was repairing the TARDIS, Jack invited him to the Hub countless times, but he only accepted once. He'd had too much of a bad taste in his mouth from his last visit to Torchwood, albeit a different incarnation. When he'd finally given in and visited, he'd talked too much and looked at everything with suspicion and made a nuisance of himself until Jack had actually wanted him to leave. And he did, mission complete. The invitations stopped, and that had been fine. Easier. Jack had got over it.

If he'd felt any twinge of guilt, he'd squashed it. He'd lost the only thing he'd wanted, the only person who'd really, truly mattered for that long, painful year. They didn't understand, would never understand, because they were humans with small minds and one heart each and none of them knew what it was like, what he'd gone through. They didn't know that he'd done the dirty job of ending the Time War, because he'd never told them and he didn't want them to know he's the killer of his own kind.

The Master would have understood, if he'd just stopped. If he'd just listened. If he'd forgotten about their old, pointless games of hero and villain for once and _listened_.

He doesn't realize how tense he's become until that moment. He forces his hands to unclench, takes slow breaths, relaxes. He needs to stop wishing things were different because there's no point to it. He can cross his own timeline but he can't go back along it, can't undo his mistakes, can't be everywhere at once even though it feels like the only solution sometimes.

It could be done. With his people gone, the rules of time can be bent, broken. No one could stop him from splintering himself off, making countless versions of himself by looping back and fixing every mistake. There's ways around the chronovores and paradoxes and causal loops. He knows so many tricks that he keeps himself from using because he's not sure he'll be able to stop himself if he ever starts. He's a Time Lord, and it's not just a label, a title. He could command time, make it bend to his will. He could choose who lives and who dies.

But that would make him a monster. So instead he makes promises he can't keep, and every failure tears him up inside.

 _Just this once, everybody lives._ He'd said that the night he'd met Jack. He'd give anything to go back to that night, feel that thrill of success. He can't.

He leaves the Hub. There's nothing for him there, just ghosts. He goes outside, walks around the Plass. Watches the people in the shops, the restaurants, with their friends and families. If he hadn't left his shields down they'd all be dead, incinerated in a nuclear fireball. Six billion lives saved by his hand, but he feels lonelier than ever. He'd adopted Earth after the War, made it his first home after centuries of it being his second. But Earth didn't adopt him. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't know where else to go.

He heads back to the TARDIS. Goes inside, lost in his thoughts, staring at the grating. Jumps in shock when he looks up and finds Jack standing there next to the console, watching him intently.

"How did you..." he begins, then realizes that of course Jack has a key. Has had for a long time. And the TARDIS is used to his wrongness, same as him.

"Merry Christmas," Jack says, rather dryly.

"Right. Yes. Same to you," the Doctor says, collecting himself. 

"Nice tux."

The Doctor looks down at himself. "I should retire it. Bad luck."

"That's you, not the tux," Jack says.

The Doctor flinches. Covers for it. "Everything's fine," he says, because there's no other reason why Jack would drag himself away from his festivities. "Well, spot of bother, but it's sorted. Taken care of. Just popped by for a refuel."

"Funny, she looks full," Jack says, far too observant. "You've been in the Hub. Find what you were looking for?"

The Doctor shrugs. "Wasn't looking."

"I take it that was you over London?" Jack says. "Very dramatic."

"Yes," the Doctor says, and doesn't elaborate. "Like I said, all sorted."

There's an uncomfortable silence, made more uncomfortable because Jack keeps _looking_ at him. The Doctor has no idea what he wants, if he's waiting for some reaction, waiting for an explanation, waiting for something. He sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to think of something to say, but his usual patter has abandoned him. Everything seems too trivial to fill the air with. 

"Why did you come back?" Jack asks. "It's barely been over a day for you. I looked."

The Doctor feels violated by that. Jack had no right to nose into his personal timeline, the TARDIS chronometer. He bristles, but forces himself to stay outwardly unruffled. "Just needed somewhere to stop." He walks the rest of the way to the console, fiddles with a few controls just to look busy. "Sorry to bother you. Everything's fine. I should be off anyway, if the tanks are full."

"Doctor," Jack says, reaches out to him. Drops his hand. "Can you at least tell me what happened up there?"

The Doctor stills. Stares down at the console without seeing it. "There was a ship. Problem with the engines. Had to jump start the secondaries with the heat of re-entry."

"And that's it?" Jack presses.

The Doctor looks up, eyes cold. Wants to say something cutting, something to make Jack go away and stop prodding at an open wound. Can't manage it, can't manage anything. He looks away.

There's another uncomfortable silence, and again it's Jack who breaks it.

"Come on," he says, more of an order than a request. "I know a great place. They're open." He walks to the door and stands there, looking entirely prepared to stand there all night if necessary.

The Doctor sighs and gives in. 

 

The restaurant is a hole in the wall a few blocks from the Plass. It's warm and small and welcoming, run by an immigrant family from Amritsar. They're very friendly and they give Jack welcoming smiles. The Doctor tries to muster some good cheer, if only so he doesn't ruin anyone else's Christmas. 

"The tandoori's excellent," Jack tells him, as they look at their menus. "And the paratha. Gotta have some of that."

"Sounds good," the Doctor says. He's barely eaten since the Van Hoff's buffalo wings. He remembers their happy faces and the sight of them falling to their deaths, and his throat tightens. He sips at his water.

He doesn't want to be hungry. He doesn't want to eat. But the smells from the kitchen are rich and spicy, and it would be rude to refuse. He tries not to think of Astrid bringing him a plate of cold hors d'oeuvres and asks Jack how things have been.

"Busy," Jack says, sounding like he means it. "The Rift's been spitting out all sorts of trouble. Luckily it's calmed down the past few weeks. Gwen called it our little Christmas miracle. But we've had some help in. UNIT's been around."

"Oh, good old UNIT," the Doctor says, feeling a genuine spark of gladness. "Wonderful bunch, first class. Lost touch with them somehow." A pang of regret dampens the spark. UNIT was his family for a while, too. But he moved on and so did they. He doesn't even know who's in charge anymore. Part of him doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to close off the timeline and arrive too late for anything but goodbyes. If he stays away from them, they're never gone. At least, that's the theory.

Paratha and samosas arrive, and suddenly eating is a welcome distraction. He doesn't have to talk when he's eating. It makes silence companionable.

Jack talks, tells stories. He's always been good at stories. He talks about the strange devices that have fallen through the Rift, the aliens drawn to the power it emits, the trivial, human, day-to-day things that happen in between the crises. Humans with their small minds and single hearts saving the world, falling in love, losing their keys. The Doctor lets it flow over him like a blanket. Barely says a word, just giving the required nods and half-smiles at the appropriate times. He tastes the spices in the food and it warms him inside and he's not sure if he's grateful or angry for it all. 

They're given free gulab jamun for dessert, because it's Christmas and Jack is their friend. It's sweet and delicious, and the Doctor forces himself to smile, to thank them. 

It's a near thing, but he manages to pull himself together once they're out in the cold again. A chill wind whips in from across the water, and he smells snow. More fallout from the ballast, maybe. He feels like a cynic.

He heads back the way they came, expecting this to be the end of it, but Jack tugs him in another direction. He follows. He's given up control of the evening, and it's more of a relief than anything else. He's had enough of being the leader.

"I thought you lived in the Hub," the Doctor says, when Jack opens the door to his flat.

"I did," Jack says. "I moved out." He takes the Doctor's coat and hangs it in the closet. Goes into the kitchen and turns on the kettle. 

It's not a huge flat, but it's comfortably sized. It looks like someone actually lives here, quite a switch from the bare cell of Jack's old room. There's furniture and pictures on the wall and the usual twenty-first century technology. There's a photo of Martha and Jack together, smiling, and the Doctor stares at it for too long before looking away. 

He's bad luck. He should leave before he brings some fresh disaster to this place, but he can't make himself go. He can't bear to be alone, even though that's what he deserves to be. 

Jack hands him a mug of tea, and they sit down on the sofa. It's a nice sofa, comfortable cushions. It's deep blue, and the colour reminds him of the TARDIS. 

"Tell me what happened," Jack says, and again it isn't a request. But it's said kindly, gently, and the Doctor has no defences against kindness.

"There was a ship," the Doctor says, staring into his tea. "It was sabotaged. I tried to stop it, tried to save them. I failed." He swallows, trying to force down the lump in his throat. "There were two thousand people aboard. I saved three. Three and a half." He closes his eyes and sees Astrid's ghostly form, sees her atoms scattering. It hurts so much.

He blinks and there's tears sliding down his cheeks. He wipes them away.

"Three's something," Jack says, quietly.

Three's not enough, the Doctor wants to say. Would say if not for the great lump in his throat. Three's not nearly enough. It's not even a percent, barely a fraction. He saved .0015 of the people on board. Saved an old, foolish man, a greedy, cruel one, and a midshipman. One of them he would gladly trade for the lives of the Van Hoffs, for Astrid, even Bannakaffalatta. The cyborg had more heart in his little finger than all of Rickston Slade.

Jack doesn't press him for more. Gives him time to recover, to finish the story. When he can speak again, he continues.

"The rest you know," he says, roughly. "Almost crashed into Buckingham Palace, but I managed to pull her up in time. Once the fusion engines were stabilised, I came down here. Oh, and there's an old man with a million pounds and the clothes on his back, but do leave him alone."

Jack gives an amused snort. "As long as he stays out of trouble."

"That's what I told him," the Doctor says, with weak humour. 

Jack shakes his head. "You were only gone for a day. Anything else I should know about?"

"I sort of ran into myself," the Doctor admits. "Just for a few minutes."

"Ran into yourself?" Jack asks, bemused.

"Celery and cricketing gear," the Doctor offers. 

"Ah," Jack says, nodding wisely. "Saw that you. From a distance, of course."

"Of course."

"You were cute then, too," Jack says, his flirtatious smile dimpling his cheeks.

The Doctor does laugh at that, a genuine laugh. "As long as I don't short out the time differential, I suppose." He drinks the tea, which is no longer steaming, and it tastes good. It warms him, the way the food warmed him, the way Jack's company is easing the pain he's been carrying. He only accepts these things because he can't refuse them. He can't take more than he's given. It's already so much.

"You're staying the night," Jack tells him.

"I am?"

"You are. Don't worry, your honor is safe. The couch folds out." Jack pats the cushions. "We can watch heartwarmingly cheesy Christmas specials."

"That... sounds nice, actually," the Doctor says. "Thank you."

"You did save the world, _again_ ," Jack says, as if it's old hat. Which it sort of is, except that every time is a stomach-churning, heart-stopping experience no matter how many world-savings one has under one's belt. "The least I can do is give you a good time. Offer you a bed for the night."

The Doctor groans. "Stop, stop." He laughs, shakes his head. "You, Jack Harkness, are completely impossible."

"So I've been told," Jack says, grinning unashamedly.

 

Thanks to Jack's DVR, they have comedy specials and The Snowman and even the Queen's speech. The Doctor sheds his jacket and tie and curls up under a throw, his tea replaced by hot chocolate with lots of marshmallows. It's trivial and human and the best night he's had in ages and by the end he's resting his head on Jack's shoulder, tired and somehow at ease. He hasn't really done this since he lost Rose, had a proper night on the couch, just relaxing. Just being with someone. 

"I missed this," he says, quietly.

"We never did this before," Jack says, bemused.

"I know. I missed it anyway," the Doctor says, not wanting to explain. Explaining might make it stop, pop the cozy little bubble Jack's drawn him into. 

He nods off halfway through an old Morecambe and Wise, and wakes up alone on the couch. His shoes are off and he's been stretched out and tucked under a blanket, and his mug is nowhere in sight. 

Even though it felt like he'd been awake forever, he doesn't need much sleep. It's still dark out, a couple of hours until dawn. He wraps the blanket around himself and stands at the window, looking out at the trickle of traffic, the signs and streetlights. People scurrying through the cold, leaving clouds of steam in their wake. Humanity going about its business. 

He loves this planet. He really does. He's loved it since he fled here all those centuries ago, away from his stuffy, rulebound people, away from trouble that he's never really escaped. He keeps coming back here again and again, to this little island on this little planet at the far edge of Mutter's Spiral. He's more like a human than a Time Lord, he's spent so much time here and away from them, long before he lost them for good. It didn't matter that he wasn't there when he was running away from them. It only mattered once they were gone.

He thinks about sneaking off, going back to the TARDIS, but he doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to have to say goodbye, either. He hates goodbyes. He hates people leaving, or leaving them. He'd take everyone along with him, if it wouldn't be a total disaster. If they weren't better off where they were. Astrid wanted to see the stars, and look where that got her.

He needs a distraction. That's what he always needs, why he keeps himself busy, why he never stops. As long as he's moving, it can't all catch up to him. He can survive Jack leaving him and Martha leaving him and meeting himself and crashing into the Titanic and barely keeping it from crashing into Earth as long as he keeps moving.

But he's stopped now, and it's not terrible. It was even wonderful, at least until now. Jack's not here now, he's sleeping in his bedroom.

The Doctor's feet carry him there, almost on their own. He opens the door slowly, sees the shaft of light cast itself across the bed. Sees the shape of Jack under the covers. Walks inside, over to the bed. Watches the even rise and fall of Jack's chest, the flicking movements of his eyes beneath their lids, and then sits down on the bed, trying not to disturb him.

It's a few minutes until he realizes Jack is looking at him. Watching him. He should probably say something, but there's nothing. He's wordless.

Jack sits up, the covers falling away to reveal his naked chest. Very slowly, very deliberately, he reaches out and takes the blanket from the Doctor's shoulders. Rests a hand on the Doctor's chest, then his cheek. Leans forward and kisses him once, chastely. Draws back.

The Doctor's eyes are wide in the darkness. He can't seem to speak, to move on his own. There's just nothing. The rest of the covers are pushed aside, and the bottom half of Jack is naked too. And then all of Jack is before him, drawing him into his arms, holding him. The Doctor draws in a shuddering breath, lets it out. Sinks into his embrace, holding Jack close, holding each other close. 

Jack kisses him again, less chastely this time. He doesn't pull away, doesn't fight this. He thinks he even wants it. He lets it happen.

Jack helps him out of his clothes, the cursed tuxedo falling to the floor piece by piece. And then they're under the covers, pressed together and kissing, and yes, he does want this. He does. It feels like something's breaking in his chest but it feels so good and he wants this.

"Doctor," Jack sighs, full of longing, full of desire. It's almost too much to bear, but he bears it. Kisses Jack with a passion that surprises him, touches him with a determination that's welled from some long-denied part of himself. It's sweet and tender and exquisite and so _human_ , and that's why he loves it.

When Jack comes, brought to it by the Doctor's hand, he lets out a sob and clutches at him, pulls him close and holds him tight, lets out a pained whimper and a laugh and kisses him passionately, hungrily, like a starved man. Grins like a fool and pushes him down, moves down his body and takes him into his mouth and makes the Doctor squirm and moan and grip at his hair until he comes too, almost stunned by it, the shock of physical pleasure, of such intimacy after decades, centuries of self-denial. He stares at the ceiling and feels amazed and confused and glad and too many other things besides.

They hold each other until the dawn. 

It's a little awkward in the morning, but much less than he'd feared. Jack kisses him and he can feel how much he cares for him, how much he loves him. The Doctor has known that Jack's been in love with him for a long time, but until now he didn't realize that he was a little bit in love too. Or maybe he did, and that's why he pushed him away so much. He doesn't know. Feelings were never his strong point.

The difference isn't so much his own turbulent emotions, but that he's let himself feel loved. It makes him feel lighter, makes the universe seem more manageable. It makes him... happy.

He smiles at Jack, and Jack grins back.

 

Jack escorts him back to the TARDIS. Staying put has never been his strong point either, and that's much less likely to change.

"Thank you," the Doctor says. "For everything. For dinner and... and everything." He suspects he might be blushing.

Jack's grin still hasn't faded. "You're welcome," he says, entirely pleased and glad. "Don't be a stranger, okay? You're welcome anytime. Martha'd love to see you."

There's a twinge in the Doctor's chest. "She hasn't called," he says, trying not to show his uncertainty.

"Trust me on this," Jack says. 

The Doctor nods. "Okay."

"Anyone ever tell you you've got a thick skull?" Jack says, fondly.

"Quite probably, yes," the Doctor says. Quirks a smile. "I'll... try to call."

"You _will_ call," Jack says. 

"Right," the Doctor says, relenting. "I will. Understood."

Jack kisses him, and he suspects he's being manipulated with positive reinforcement. If so, he can't really say he objects to a bit of positive reinforcement. 

"See you soon," Jack says, and it's not so much a parting as a promise. 

The Doctor thinks that a promise he can manage to keep. He thinks maybe Christmas isn't such a disaster for him after all. He thinks he'll give New Year's Eve a try.

He smiles as he sets the TARDIS for a week ahead, and takes out Martha's phone and calls her.


End file.
